Wednesday 28th April 2010, 8.20pm, Nomads Skylodge Resort, Nadi - Vitu Levu
One is Welsh, one is Northern Irish, ten are English.
I went to school with seven of them, University with three of them, and picked up the other two out of sheer good fortune.
Ten are female, two are male.
One lives in Cardiff, one lives in Bristol, one lives in Leeds, three live in Canterbury, three live in Essex, three live in London.
Three are vegetarian.
Five appreciate a cigarette.
Three have their own blogs.
Amongst them there are two actors, a journalist, two teachers, a script writer, a PA and a broker.
Four have tattoos.
Five are dog people, three are cat people, four have time for neither although one of these loves guinea pigs.
Eleven are older than me, one is younger, by exactly a month.
One grew up in Hong Kong and loves Audrey Hepburn and sushi, Bob Dylan and champagne. She's going to be famous.
One is a domestic goddess with eyes bigger than Bambi's, a phobia of melted ice cream, and owns two Chanel handbags and a heart of solid gold.
One went back to Uni to study what she loves and wears vamp lipstick, a vintage dress and a dirty grin to every lecture.
One is my Valentine's Day cohort, smarter and more modest than all the men who dominate her profession, and ran the London Marathon last weekend like she was jogging in the park.
One loves superheros and comic books, taught me about wine in a box, living on cobbled streets and being true to yourself even when it's really hard to be.
One could tell you an interesting story about chilli peppers, has the messiest bedroom, the most filthy, infectious giggle and the most unwaveringly loyal heart ever.
One always knew what she wanted so went out and did it, she'll juggle career and family with deft ease, and is only an engagement ring short of the jackpot.
One has gorgeous red hair, fiery passion to match it, childlike optimism, a belief in God, and the power to make you believe in God when you witness her faith.
One is a person you'd always want at your party, the wittiest, most stylish, most eloquent, devastatingly funny, charismatic man in every room he disco dances in to.
One owns most of my childhood memories and used to be taller than everyone else, now it's just her beauty and humility that make others small in comparison.
One will make her home your home, feed you red wine and cheese and Sex and the City and Margaret Atwood, cooks a mean gnocchi and is going to travel the globe and make people the planet over beg her not to leave them.
One lives by cocktails, Marlboro Lights, hot climates and excuses to buy a new pair of shoes, she makes me laugh like no one else can, and could teach the world what it means to be a best friend through the hard times and the good.
Some have quick tempers, others mellow dispositions. Some go to the movies, some read books, some buy Vogue. Some like Electro, some sing along to Mariah Carey. Some wear leather, others wear floral. Some have married parents, others have separated families, all have vices, all have passions, all have dreams, all of them are different. Twelve wonderfully different people with one thing in common. That thing is me.
A few days ago I sent an e-mail to these twelve people because I needed them. I am fortunate enough to have many people I count as friends, but these twelve are more than that. They are my confidantes and companions, the ones who know everything, the people I would raise hell to protect, the ones that I'd gladly take bullets for. I was worried and upset about something, I yearned for the advice and support of my best friends, I told them what has been troubling me and asked simply, 'help me'. Sometimes we need to ask for help, we need to let those closest to us know that we are struggling, and in my case, my S.O.S. was swiftly answered... ask and you shall receive. I have been overwhelmed by them, as I always am. In the space of 48 hours my inbox was inundated with messages of warmth, wisdom, shared sadness, priceless advice, coping mechanisms, and unending compassion, kindness and understanding. I have laughed and cried and nodded in agreement with the receipt of each of their e-mails.
All offered completely contrasting opinions and suggestions, each of their answers reflecting their own experiences and beliefs; it would be impossible for me to put each of their plans into action because they all think and see things so divergently from one another. Do you know what though? This does not matter in the slightest. It turns out that I didn't need practical solutions or 10 point plans or structured guidelines for coping, all I needed, was to hear their voices and to know that they are there for me. It wasn't the answers that I craved, it was the sentiment behind them. What has occurred to me now is that it doesn't matter an iota how conflicting their ideas are, just as their differences in backgrounds, tastes, ambitions and character have never mattered. What matters is the one thing all these e-mails had in common, each and every last one of them was motivated out of consideration for me, out of their shared desire to help me find happiness; my best interests fixed firmly on all of their hearts.
As for the reason I initially sent out my distress signal, well this now seems far less important and troublesome than it did to me a couple of days ago, it has been clouded into insignificance by the storm of their love. What trial or tribulation can hurt me now? What can damage me when I have in written proof that twelve of the best human beings I ever met would drop everything to sit at their keyboards and help me when I called for it from half way around the world. I am not upset anymore, the panic has passed, what on earth have I got to complain about? I know how lucky I am that these people would bless me with their friendship, I also know that plenty of people in this world would be impossibly grateful for just one of these relationships. My problem has been split 13 times, and in it's separately carved fractions now feels a perfectly light load to bare.
This might just be the only way I know to get to happiness, finding people who will carry you on their shoulders over the ditches and trenches on the road towards it. Twelve people. One thing in common: I would never have made it this far down the road without them.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
For My Companion
Wednesday 28th April 2010, 4.20pm, Nomads Skylodge Resort, Nadi - Vitu Levu
Dear Ella,
No one has ever cried that much because they were being separated from me, no one has ever been so upset to see me go, I have never had the privilege of seeing someone's feelings for me so viscerally displayed in tears at our parting, and it made me feel indescribably loved. I cried too, until you were a dot on the horizon standing in the surf waving your arms, a little blonde dot in the distance, I sat on the boat that carried me away from you and wept! I cried because this is the end of a precious time, because I will miss having you there to tell all my thoughts to, because I am scared to go on without my companion.
Thank you for coming with me. In the past 5 months I have seen and done more of importance than I had in the 23 years that preceded this, and I am so grateful that I had someone there to see it with me. We have had the best times of our lives in each others' company, and without you to share it with me I may have found it difficult in years to come to look back on all this and really believe it ever happened. But I know that every time we see each other at home, every time we will drink tea in each others' houses (where I will probably want coffee and you will serve it out of Royal Doulton), go shopping on Portobello Market (when I will get frustrated by your indecision over two identical t-shirts and pick for you), quaff wine on a Friday night after work (you can tell me about famous celebrities you've dressed and I'll show you the new bruises that teenagers with bad attitudes have given me), when we wander through London streets that have recently seemed so far away, when I look at you I will be instantly transported back to this magical time in our lives. Your face, your voice, your laugh, will take me back to the beaches of Thailand, the jungles of Vietnam, the nightlife in Bali, the mountains of New Zealand, the sunsets of Fiji - you will bring these much missed places back to my doorstep. Less than a year ago we were strangers, but because of everything that has happened to us together I know we will always be a part of each others' lives, no one else could understand as fully as you will.
I'm sorry if sometimes I was a difficult person to travel with, too grumpy when sleep deprived, too angry at men, too silent when suffering, too fearful or sarcastic or cynical. Without you there I would have been a much worse version of myself, but your excitement and eagerness, your warmth, consideration, care and encouragement helped me to be more like you; someone who never took one day we had for granted. I will endeavour to carry this with me, taking all I have learnt from your bravery and exuberance on the road ahead in the hope that, like you, I will never forget how lucky we have been.
Have the best time in America and Canada, see everything, do everything, only take registered taxis, wear your sunscreen, don't wash your whites with your red dress, find someone to play with your hair, teach everyone about the Tune scale, don't worry about money - your creativity and your ambition will make you more soon enough. Show everyone Stateside why it is that I miss you so much already. And Ells, don't fret about the future, it is in bigger hands than your dainty ring-laden fingers. You know that I believe in things happening for a reason, that if we truly try to do the right thing, life will provide us with tools and means to do this. When I made that scary decision back in September to finally bite the bullet and buy a plane ticket, I was introduced to you just 8 days later. I cannot shrug my shoulders and call it a coincidence. What have you to worry about, when it has already been so mercifully proven to us that the future has a way of taking care of itself?! All that you want to happen will happen, in ways you may not even expect.
On the day you came away you sent me a text message from the airport, do you remember? It said,
'I'm so scared and excited. Eating dinner alone, need someone to hug but can't speak to anyone because we just cry! I can't wait to see you, we are going to have a mammoth adventure.'
Yes we did my darling. Thank you, a million times thank you for being at my side through the most mammoth of adventures, it would have been so much smaller without you.
All my love always,
Grace x.
Dear Ella,
No one has ever cried that much because they were being separated from me, no one has ever been so upset to see me go, I have never had the privilege of seeing someone's feelings for me so viscerally displayed in tears at our parting, and it made me feel indescribably loved. I cried too, until you were a dot on the horizon standing in the surf waving your arms, a little blonde dot in the distance, I sat on the boat that carried me away from you and wept! I cried because this is the end of a precious time, because I will miss having you there to tell all my thoughts to, because I am scared to go on without my companion.
Thank you for coming with me. In the past 5 months I have seen and done more of importance than I had in the 23 years that preceded this, and I am so grateful that I had someone there to see it with me. We have had the best times of our lives in each others' company, and without you to share it with me I may have found it difficult in years to come to look back on all this and really believe it ever happened. But I know that every time we see each other at home, every time we will drink tea in each others' houses (where I will probably want coffee and you will serve it out of Royal Doulton), go shopping on Portobello Market (when I will get frustrated by your indecision over two identical t-shirts and pick for you), quaff wine on a Friday night after work (you can tell me about famous celebrities you've dressed and I'll show you the new bruises that teenagers with bad attitudes have given me), when we wander through London streets that have recently seemed so far away, when I look at you I will be instantly transported back to this magical time in our lives. Your face, your voice, your laugh, will take me back to the beaches of Thailand, the jungles of Vietnam, the nightlife in Bali, the mountains of New Zealand, the sunsets of Fiji - you will bring these much missed places back to my doorstep. Less than a year ago we were strangers, but because of everything that has happened to us together I know we will always be a part of each others' lives, no one else could understand as fully as you will.
I'm sorry if sometimes I was a difficult person to travel with, too grumpy when sleep deprived, too angry at men, too silent when suffering, too fearful or sarcastic or cynical. Without you there I would have been a much worse version of myself, but your excitement and eagerness, your warmth, consideration, care and encouragement helped me to be more like you; someone who never took one day we had for granted. I will endeavour to carry this with me, taking all I have learnt from your bravery and exuberance on the road ahead in the hope that, like you, I will never forget how lucky we have been.
Have the best time in America and Canada, see everything, do everything, only take registered taxis, wear your sunscreen, don't wash your whites with your red dress, find someone to play with your hair, teach everyone about the Tune scale, don't worry about money - your creativity and your ambition will make you more soon enough. Show everyone Stateside why it is that I miss you so much already. And Ells, don't fret about the future, it is in bigger hands than your dainty ring-laden fingers. You know that I believe in things happening for a reason, that if we truly try to do the right thing, life will provide us with tools and means to do this. When I made that scary decision back in September to finally bite the bullet and buy a plane ticket, I was introduced to you just 8 days later. I cannot shrug my shoulders and call it a coincidence. What have you to worry about, when it has already been so mercifully proven to us that the future has a way of taking care of itself?! All that you want to happen will happen, in ways you may not even expect.
On the day you came away you sent me a text message from the airport, do you remember? It said,
'I'm so scared and excited. Eating dinner alone, need someone to hug but can't speak to anyone because we just cry! I can't wait to see you, we are going to have a mammoth adventure.'
Yes we did my darling. Thank you, a million times thank you for being at my side through the most mammoth of adventures, it would have been so much smaller without you.
All my love always,
Grace x.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
A Triumphant Loser
Wednesday 27th April 2010, 2am, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
Since the beginning of our travels together, Ella and I have been teaching and learning a multitude of different drinking games to and from other travellers. For the uninitiated I will explain the premise of a drinking game. Usually involving a deck of cards, or a list of improvised rules, a party trick or a series of bets and dares, a drinking game involves a group of people sat around a table playing competitively in one forum or another to get each other drunk as quickly as possible. It's like sport, but fun, and bad for your liver.
In these games, drinking a large swig of the alcoholic beverage in front of you is always considered punishment, or forfeit, for losing at the chosen game. My favourites to play are ones that rely on dynamic vocabulary, quick wit or good short term memory - I never get drunk when the stakes depend on these variables. Card games, number problems, coordination, fast reaction time, physical challenges however, in games of this ilk it's pretty certain that I'll end up trollied. There is one particular drinking game that I detest, my ineptitude for it meaning that I will always be the first in the group to be slurring my words and slipping my elbow off the edge of the table. An empty glass is placed in the middle of the competitors, each takes it in turns to hold a coin flat between thumb and forefinger and then bounce this coin on it's flat surface off of the table, and hopefully, into the glass.
Ella is phenomenally fantastic at this game; hence why we seem to play it quite a lot. She just has an unnerving knack for it, she can do it time and time again, I've seen her get coins in Pringle boxes before - that's practically Olympian. I, well, I'm shit at it aren't I. Every time I bounce the coin and it flies off the table, or hits someone in the eye, or refuses to bounce at all and just falls flat on the surface like a dead weight, I have to take another gulp of my chosen tipple, and so inevitably my aptitude for this sporting event becomes more and more impeded by inebriation.
A wonderful thing happened tonight. On this Tuesday evening/Wednesday morning, this last night that Ella and I will spend together, I, Grace 'Not Very Good At Things' Gillman, for the first time in 5 months of playing this damn game, got the coin in the glass. It was a very special moment. Our other players had all been briefed about my coin game failings, and along with Ella and I were all vocal in their moral support, willing me to concentrate and achieve this feat which has for so long eluded me. After seeing off two rum and cokes and a glass of white wine that tasted like mouldy vinegar, I finally bounced that coin where it was meant to go, and the celebration at the table was raucous.
We all leapt in the air and cheered, clapped, high-fived and hugged each other like I'd just won the last lap of a team relay at the Commonwealth Games. Everyone was delighted for me that I'd managed to mark the occasion of mine and Ella's "Last Supper" by finally conquering this stupid game. After the jubilation died down other people chose to sacrifice their turns for me, because they said they wanted to see the same look of shock and joy on my face once more. If only there had been a camera in attendance, I probably looked like I'd just won the lottery. But I couldn't replicate it, it was obviously a one-off achievement. No matter, my instant return to Coin Game sloppiness did not darken that moment for me, hearing that 10 cents piece clink in the glass was made all the more sweeter by 5 months of losing. Being good at everything, effortlessly, all the time, well that's no fun, you'd come to expect so much of yourself! Being truly terrible at things, and overcoming them through camaraderie and perseverance, hearing the crowd cheer the underdog, now that's what triumph feels like.
Since the beginning of our travels together, Ella and I have been teaching and learning a multitude of different drinking games to and from other travellers. For the uninitiated I will explain the premise of a drinking game. Usually involving a deck of cards, or a list of improvised rules, a party trick or a series of bets and dares, a drinking game involves a group of people sat around a table playing competitively in one forum or another to get each other drunk as quickly as possible. It's like sport, but fun, and bad for your liver.
In these games, drinking a large swig of the alcoholic beverage in front of you is always considered punishment, or forfeit, for losing at the chosen game. My favourites to play are ones that rely on dynamic vocabulary, quick wit or good short term memory - I never get drunk when the stakes depend on these variables. Card games, number problems, coordination, fast reaction time, physical challenges however, in games of this ilk it's pretty certain that I'll end up trollied. There is one particular drinking game that I detest, my ineptitude for it meaning that I will always be the first in the group to be slurring my words and slipping my elbow off the edge of the table. An empty glass is placed in the middle of the competitors, each takes it in turns to hold a coin flat between thumb and forefinger and then bounce this coin on it's flat surface off of the table, and hopefully, into the glass.
Ella is phenomenally fantastic at this game; hence why we seem to play it quite a lot. She just has an unnerving knack for it, she can do it time and time again, I've seen her get coins in Pringle boxes before - that's practically Olympian. I, well, I'm shit at it aren't I. Every time I bounce the coin and it flies off the table, or hits someone in the eye, or refuses to bounce at all and just falls flat on the surface like a dead weight, I have to take another gulp of my chosen tipple, and so inevitably my aptitude for this sporting event becomes more and more impeded by inebriation.
A wonderful thing happened tonight. On this Tuesday evening/Wednesday morning, this last night that Ella and I will spend together, I, Grace 'Not Very Good At Things' Gillman, for the first time in 5 months of playing this damn game, got the coin in the glass. It was a very special moment. Our other players had all been briefed about my coin game failings, and along with Ella and I were all vocal in their moral support, willing me to concentrate and achieve this feat which has for so long eluded me. After seeing off two rum and cokes and a glass of white wine that tasted like mouldy vinegar, I finally bounced that coin where it was meant to go, and the celebration at the table was raucous.
We all leapt in the air and cheered, clapped, high-fived and hugged each other like I'd just won the last lap of a team relay at the Commonwealth Games. Everyone was delighted for me that I'd managed to mark the occasion of mine and Ella's "Last Supper" by finally conquering this stupid game. After the jubilation died down other people chose to sacrifice their turns for me, because they said they wanted to see the same look of shock and joy on my face once more. If only there had been a camera in attendance, I probably looked like I'd just won the lottery. But I couldn't replicate it, it was obviously a one-off achievement. No matter, my instant return to Coin Game sloppiness did not darken that moment for me, hearing that 10 cents piece clink in the glass was made all the more sweeter by 5 months of losing. Being good at everything, effortlessly, all the time, well that's no fun, you'd come to expect so much of yourself! Being truly terrible at things, and overcoming them through camaraderie and perseverance, hearing the crowd cheer the underdog, now that's what triumph feels like.
Passing of the Storm
Monday 26th April 2010, 7.05am, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
Without really knowing it, I think I've known all week that something has been brewing. Days of light rain and my tempestuous mood reached a climax yesterday afternoon, and were then broken overnight by a real tempest, a real storm to wash away the anxiety of the past 7 days. At around 9pm yesterday evening the heavens opened and the rain finally did what it has been threatening to do, it came down in heavy, violent droves, flooding Mana Island in water knee deep. We were caught in a cyclone.
Palm trees have been uprooted, thatched roofs damaged, beach debris washed ashore, winds raged around our straw hut at speeds of 100 kilometres an hour, the night sky was burnt and scarred by a kaleidoscope of lightning, and I have never heard thunder so deep, so deafeningly bellowing in my whole life. The volume of it reverberated through my ear drums, vibrating my insides like a nauseating base line played on stadium speakers. It sounded like God's wrath, it was terrifying. Throughout the early hours of this morning I sat awake in bed listening to the elements cause havoc outside my rattling shutters, wetness dripping on my feet from the buckling leaf ceiling pregnant with rain water, puddles coming in under the door, the wind shaking the foundations of our hut, and convinced that we would be lucky to make it through the night unharmed.
We don't have to deal with these kind of weather conditions in Britain, or at least not in London. We live in the blissful ignorance of a temperate climate, where we never get a truly brilliant baking summer, but where in return for this, we neither have to endure the kind of natural disasters that weather can inflict so brutally on other parts of the world. I have always enjoyed storms at home, but this is because I live in a sturdy semi-detached brick house with a well insulated roof, double glazing, thick carpets and central heating. It is a rare pleasure to be cocooned in warmth and safety and smugness in my cosy box of a bedroom at home whilst the rain pours down on hard, cold streets outside my lead panelled window. Being in the middle of a tropical cyclone, in a hut made from straw and bamboo, surrounded by the sound of trees crashing to the forest floor just yards from your bed, well this is a markedly less pleasurable storm experience, take it from me temperate climate dwellers.
It might be an over exaggeration to say that I feared for my life, but there definitely was one self indulgent moment of morbidness where I remember sulking at how pathetic a gravestone epitaph 'she was killed by rain and wind' would be. Far more desirable to be 'eaten by lion' or 'shot in bank heist' or 'drowned saving family of 5 from strong currents'. Death by rain and wind, well that's about as impressive a final curtain as being run over by a milk float. I may have allowed my imagination to run away with me a little, but this is what I do, and I needed some distraction from the thunder.
The cyclone came and went, and I am happy to say that no one need draft my obituary just yet. The elements have purged themselves over the islands of Fiji, and where yesterday there were acres of grey cloud, there is now a clear blue sky and fierce, scorching sunshine. The islanders are cleaning up the mess and mopping the flood water from their homes, and I, like the weather am in the lightest mood I have been in all week. The clouds were sat even heavier on my heart than they were on the sky, but for now at least, it seems this storm has passed.
Without really knowing it, I think I've known all week that something has been brewing. Days of light rain and my tempestuous mood reached a climax yesterday afternoon, and were then broken overnight by a real tempest, a real storm to wash away the anxiety of the past 7 days. At around 9pm yesterday evening the heavens opened and the rain finally did what it has been threatening to do, it came down in heavy, violent droves, flooding Mana Island in water knee deep. We were caught in a cyclone.
Palm trees have been uprooted, thatched roofs damaged, beach debris washed ashore, winds raged around our straw hut at speeds of 100 kilometres an hour, the night sky was burnt and scarred by a kaleidoscope of lightning, and I have never heard thunder so deep, so deafeningly bellowing in my whole life. The volume of it reverberated through my ear drums, vibrating my insides like a nauseating base line played on stadium speakers. It sounded like God's wrath, it was terrifying. Throughout the early hours of this morning I sat awake in bed listening to the elements cause havoc outside my rattling shutters, wetness dripping on my feet from the buckling leaf ceiling pregnant with rain water, puddles coming in under the door, the wind shaking the foundations of our hut, and convinced that we would be lucky to make it through the night unharmed.
We don't have to deal with these kind of weather conditions in Britain, or at least not in London. We live in the blissful ignorance of a temperate climate, where we never get a truly brilliant baking summer, but where in return for this, we neither have to endure the kind of natural disasters that weather can inflict so brutally on other parts of the world. I have always enjoyed storms at home, but this is because I live in a sturdy semi-detached brick house with a well insulated roof, double glazing, thick carpets and central heating. It is a rare pleasure to be cocooned in warmth and safety and smugness in my cosy box of a bedroom at home whilst the rain pours down on hard, cold streets outside my lead panelled window. Being in the middle of a tropical cyclone, in a hut made from straw and bamboo, surrounded by the sound of trees crashing to the forest floor just yards from your bed, well this is a markedly less pleasurable storm experience, take it from me temperate climate dwellers.
It might be an over exaggeration to say that I feared for my life, but there definitely was one self indulgent moment of morbidness where I remember sulking at how pathetic a gravestone epitaph 'she was killed by rain and wind' would be. Far more desirable to be 'eaten by lion' or 'shot in bank heist' or 'drowned saving family of 5 from strong currents'. Death by rain and wind, well that's about as impressive a final curtain as being run over by a milk float. I may have allowed my imagination to run away with me a little, but this is what I do, and I needed some distraction from the thunder.
The cyclone came and went, and I am happy to say that no one need draft my obituary just yet. The elements have purged themselves over the islands of Fiji, and where yesterday there were acres of grey cloud, there is now a clear blue sky and fierce, scorching sunshine. The islanders are cleaning up the mess and mopping the flood water from their homes, and I, like the weather am in the lightest mood I have been in all week. The clouds were sat even heavier on my heart than they were on the sky, but for now at least, it seems this storm has passed.
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Bad Mood Shadow
Sunday 25th April 2010, 5.20pm, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
I really don't know what's been wrong with me the past week or so, I've been suffering from an inexcusably and unjustifiably bad mood that has been lurking in my shadow and jumping on my back once every few days, placing it's head on top of mine and supplanting every miserable thought or acid tongued retort from its own miserable cadaver into mine. There's absolutely no explanation for it and I feel like a horrible person who doesn't deserve to be here when all I can seem to do is get angry at unavoidable inconveniences. I am on Mana Island, staying in a resort where I am fed 3 times a day, where I have a comfy, clean bed, where there are 4 resident dogs and 20 other friendly backpackers for me to play with, where no one expects anything from me other than that I will spend my days sunbathing, reading and swimming. And yet.
Take this example. There is a saying commonly, and in my frustrated mind, too overly used on the islands, that is "Fiji Time". Fiji Time is the Fijians way of saying relax, don't stress, we'll get round to it eventually, sure we said dinner would be at 7, but we're working on Fiji Time, so 7 doesn't really mean anything. Everyone else seems to have wound down their internal clocks to quite successfully synchronise with Fiji Time, no one expects anything to happen until it has actually happened, everyone is just so chilled out man. Do you want to know how well I am adjusting to Fiji Time? How peaceful and easy-going I am? I think that "Fiji Time" is just an unimaginative excuse for being god damn lazy and incompetent, a way of revoking your word and never fulfilling anything you promise at the time when you say it will be done. It is a manipulation of semantics to aid procrastinators, dawdlers, idlers and the unpunctual.
The way I can prove this is by exemplifying the fact that on the islands, the only time "Fiji Time" is not a valid pardon for something being late, is when it's time to check out.
"Oh sorry I'm handing back my key 15 minutes late, you know how it is, ha ha, overslept, still on Fiji Time!"
"That will be 15 dollars late key charge."
It is the most hypocritical, one-sided and infuriatingly illogical argument I have ever heard! Just writing about it now is making my blood boil, I shouldn't be this stressed!
I got annoyed again this morning when I realised that Notebook Number Three had come to an end, leaving me without means to continue writing. This would not do. So I wandered down to the "shop" behind reception and asked if they sold notepads. I was presented with a spiral bound jotter no bigger than my palm. I asked if they had any scrap paper I could use, thinking I'd just make do whilst marooned from the mainland, and the woman behind the desk, sat with a messy pile of paper strands in front of her, sighed and said "No, I don't think so." Helpful. So I have been forced to buy the notebook that is too small for a rodent to keep an accurate diary in, and evidently, yes, it's pissing me off.
I know I sound stupid. Things not happening on time and lack of desirable A5 paper on a tropical island paradise... I shouldn't be even nearly as irate as I am. Maybe these things are just cursory distraction techniques from something bigger that is looming, a few clouds in the sky, Fiji Time, uncooked potatoes at dinner, small paper and slightly expensive vodka would never usually be the kind of things to have the power to make me so tense, so on edge, so snappy. The bad mood just keeps jumping on my back, holding on around my neck and refusing to let go. But I don't think it's anything to do with beautiful Fiji. It is a manifestation of fear of something bigger, a much bigger bad mood, a much bigger continent indeed.
I really don't know what's been wrong with me the past week or so, I've been suffering from an inexcusably and unjustifiably bad mood that has been lurking in my shadow and jumping on my back once every few days, placing it's head on top of mine and supplanting every miserable thought or acid tongued retort from its own miserable cadaver into mine. There's absolutely no explanation for it and I feel like a horrible person who doesn't deserve to be here when all I can seem to do is get angry at unavoidable inconveniences. I am on Mana Island, staying in a resort where I am fed 3 times a day, where I have a comfy, clean bed, where there are 4 resident dogs and 20 other friendly backpackers for me to play with, where no one expects anything from me other than that I will spend my days sunbathing, reading and swimming. And yet.
Take this example. There is a saying commonly, and in my frustrated mind, too overly used on the islands, that is "Fiji Time". Fiji Time is the Fijians way of saying relax, don't stress, we'll get round to it eventually, sure we said dinner would be at 7, but we're working on Fiji Time, so 7 doesn't really mean anything. Everyone else seems to have wound down their internal clocks to quite successfully synchronise with Fiji Time, no one expects anything to happen until it has actually happened, everyone is just so chilled out man. Do you want to know how well I am adjusting to Fiji Time? How peaceful and easy-going I am? I think that "Fiji Time" is just an unimaginative excuse for being god damn lazy and incompetent, a way of revoking your word and never fulfilling anything you promise at the time when you say it will be done. It is a manipulation of semantics to aid procrastinators, dawdlers, idlers and the unpunctual.
The way I can prove this is by exemplifying the fact that on the islands, the only time "Fiji Time" is not a valid pardon for something being late, is when it's time to check out.
"Oh sorry I'm handing back my key 15 minutes late, you know how it is, ha ha, overslept, still on Fiji Time!"
"That will be 15 dollars late key charge."
It is the most hypocritical, one-sided and infuriatingly illogical argument I have ever heard! Just writing about it now is making my blood boil, I shouldn't be this stressed!
I got annoyed again this morning when I realised that Notebook Number Three had come to an end, leaving me without means to continue writing. This would not do. So I wandered down to the "shop" behind reception and asked if they sold notepads. I was presented with a spiral bound jotter no bigger than my palm. I asked if they had any scrap paper I could use, thinking I'd just make do whilst marooned from the mainland, and the woman behind the desk, sat with a messy pile of paper strands in front of her, sighed and said "No, I don't think so." Helpful. So I have been forced to buy the notebook that is too small for a rodent to keep an accurate diary in, and evidently, yes, it's pissing me off.
I know I sound stupid. Things not happening on time and lack of desirable A5 paper on a tropical island paradise... I shouldn't be even nearly as irate as I am. Maybe these things are just cursory distraction techniques from something bigger that is looming, a few clouds in the sky, Fiji Time, uncooked potatoes at dinner, small paper and slightly expensive vodka would never usually be the kind of things to have the power to make me so tense, so on edge, so snappy. The bad mood just keeps jumping on my back, holding on around my neck and refusing to let go. But I don't think it's anything to do with beautiful Fiji. It is a manifestation of fear of something bigger, a much bigger bad mood, a much bigger continent indeed.
The Reoccuring Dream
Saturday 24th April 2010, 6.45am, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
I have been having the same dream, continuously, for the past 5 months. I would have told you about it sooner but as often happens with our dreams they pale and vanish in consciousness, they flee from that cerebral cortex which governs daytime thinking. Unless we make concerted effort to hold on to them by chasing their tails through our memory, they are lost in a No Man's Land of unexplained sleeper's thought. This one always sticks with me, but it is only today, on rising and reaching for my notebook as early as I have, that I finally remember to tell you about it.
The premise, the feeling and the ending of the dream are always exactly the same, a few variables change here and there, but every time I have it I wake up not knowing where I am. It starts with me at home, and by home I mean various locations around London; sometimes I am at work, sometimes at my parents' house, sometimes at my local pub. The conversation begins, the scene is set, the exposition run through: I have just returned from travelling, I am being welcomed back for the first time by family and friends and colleagues. I have come back, but only temporarily, just to see everyone for one weekend, a fleeting visit before I go back to whatever country I was in at the time - when I was in Cambodia I knew this in the dream, and knew I had to get back to Vietnam, when I was in Bali this is what I told people in my dream, and knew I had to fly back to New Zealand, and so on and so forth.
I spend time catching up with everyone and begin to get back in to my old routines, and then the dream switches. I have been at home too long, what am I doing here? I'm going to miss my next flight, it's going to cost me a fortune in plane tickets to get back to where I was and carry on. The dream always ends with me walking over to the noticeboard in our kitchen and pointing at the calendar, then I say, "I'm not going to be able to get back in time." I wake up in a state of panic, at first not realising that I was dreaming, believing I'm at home. Then it takes me a few seconds to process the room around me and work out what country, what island, what dormitory I'm in. The relief is always immense when I realise I'm still away and that I haven't missed any flights, every time I have the dream it makes me thankful all over again to be travelling.
I must have had that same dream about 20 times now, and I doubt I've seen the last of it yet. I'm no practised dream interpreter, but I don't think it takes any great philosopher to decipher what it means. It means I'm where I'm meant to be, doing what makes me happy, in places that I can't bare to leave, on a trip that I don't want to end. But it also means that if I could fly home for the weekend and see you all without jeopardising the future of my travels, I'd be there in a shot. If it's any consolation my dears, I'm visiting you all in my dreams.
I have been having the same dream, continuously, for the past 5 months. I would have told you about it sooner but as often happens with our dreams they pale and vanish in consciousness, they flee from that cerebral cortex which governs daytime thinking. Unless we make concerted effort to hold on to them by chasing their tails through our memory, they are lost in a No Man's Land of unexplained sleeper's thought. This one always sticks with me, but it is only today, on rising and reaching for my notebook as early as I have, that I finally remember to tell you about it.
The premise, the feeling and the ending of the dream are always exactly the same, a few variables change here and there, but every time I have it I wake up not knowing where I am. It starts with me at home, and by home I mean various locations around London; sometimes I am at work, sometimes at my parents' house, sometimes at my local pub. The conversation begins, the scene is set, the exposition run through: I have just returned from travelling, I am being welcomed back for the first time by family and friends and colleagues. I have come back, but only temporarily, just to see everyone for one weekend, a fleeting visit before I go back to whatever country I was in at the time - when I was in Cambodia I knew this in the dream, and knew I had to get back to Vietnam, when I was in Bali this is what I told people in my dream, and knew I had to fly back to New Zealand, and so on and so forth.
I spend time catching up with everyone and begin to get back in to my old routines, and then the dream switches. I have been at home too long, what am I doing here? I'm going to miss my next flight, it's going to cost me a fortune in plane tickets to get back to where I was and carry on. The dream always ends with me walking over to the noticeboard in our kitchen and pointing at the calendar, then I say, "I'm not going to be able to get back in time." I wake up in a state of panic, at first not realising that I was dreaming, believing I'm at home. Then it takes me a few seconds to process the room around me and work out what country, what island, what dormitory I'm in. The relief is always immense when I realise I'm still away and that I haven't missed any flights, every time I have the dream it makes me thankful all over again to be travelling.
I must have had that same dream about 20 times now, and I doubt I've seen the last of it yet. I'm no practised dream interpreter, but I don't think it takes any great philosopher to decipher what it means. It means I'm where I'm meant to be, doing what makes me happy, in places that I can't bare to leave, on a trip that I don't want to end. But it also means that if I could fly home for the weekend and see you all without jeopardising the future of my travels, I'd be there in a shot. If it's any consolation my dears, I'm visiting you all in my dreams.
I Know This Much Is True
Thursday 22nd March 2010, 3.20pm, Beachcomber Island
I'm aware that I do go on about books that I've read on my travels quite frequently. But to be honest, you've got off remarkably lightly, I'm usually much more prolific in my book chat than this. Just ask any of my close friends and I'm sure they'll happily attest to the fact that I become reasonably boring in my constant desire to discuss and dissect and debate novels I've read. I could talk about books I love forever, and probably will. Maybe I should see if anyone wants to pay me to write about them; Grace Gillman, Literary Critic, that would be jolly nice. Then I could spend a stupid amount of time reading and no one would be able to tell me I was wasting my time, because it would be my JOB to be boring about books! I should have thought of this sooner!
I become distracted. I'm writing today to tell you about the book I have just finished, Wally Lamb's, 'I Know This Much Is True'. I came across it in entirely serendipitous circumstances, having read myself out of mine and Ella's reading material (although I point blank refused to touch her copy of 'Rubbish Boyfriends' by Jessie Jones, it offends me that money is spent printing that garbage, I'm just surprised it didn't have illustrations) I was on the way to the book shop and exchange at the Beach House, dreading what manner of Jilly Cooper, Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes and Jodi Picoult dross I was going to find there.
Walking through the bar I caught sight of a lone abandoned book on a shelf by the snooker table. There was no library label or name in the front cover, and it had been sellotaped down the spine to hold the two separated halves together, I like a well-loved book. I was initially perturbed by the presence of an Oprah's Book Club sticker on the front, guessing that this might mean it was some kind of self-help preaching manifesto, but then I remember that Oprah likes Toni Morrison, so she can't be all bad. Turning it in my hands to read the blurb I was instead met by an onslaught of critics' opinions that said things like;
'Every now and then a book comes along that sets new standards for writers and readers alike. Wally Lamb's latest novel is stunning - and even that might be an understatement... this is a masterpiece.'
'A rich literary tapestry that is an affirmation of life.'
'Twice as thoughtful and twice as heart-wrenching as most published this year... impossible to forget.'
'A late twentieth century Les Miserables.'
'The only thing bad about Wally Lamb's new novel is that it's too good.'
'There are no superlatives impressive enough to describe this... the saga of the century.'
Well then. All this praise just left me mightily confused as to how the hell I'd never heard of this author or this book? Why don't I pay more attention to the New York Times Bestseller List? Why am I not a literary critic too? Why haven't I written my book yet instead of this silly blog? Why don't I watch Oprah? I become distracted again. You can probably guess what I'm going to say about Lamb's novel can't you, it's not going to be 'yeah, weren't bad' is it. Without wanting to hammer home the message too rigidly after all those critics' plaudits, I will tell you simply first, that yes, it is an astounding feat of literary genius, it is 900 pages of storytelling perfection that make you wish it had been double, triple it's already magnitudinous length. I've just finished it and I am fighting the urge to go back to page 1 and start all over again.
It is a fully developed exploration of contemporary suffering and redemption, it is inspiring, disturbingly comic, devastating, symmetrically crafted, a soulful consideration of all that hurts and heals us. Right at the centre of this book is an epic modern day survivor, a man who is flawed and selfish and angry and guilty of betrayal, and yet you love him all the more for his very human failings, you so desperately want him to have the happy ending he deserves. He should go down, in my opinion, as one of the greatest literary examples of troubled human life and heroism ever written.
I couldn't possibly tell you what it's about, because it is about everything. But if you intend to read it I would warn you to prepare yourself for a heavy study in tragedy. I was shedding a quiet tear to myself at one particularly emotive part and Ella asked me why it was sad? "Schizophrenia, cot death, self mutilation, child abuse, domestic violence, oppression of women, racism, divorce, depression, rape, social injustice, death, betrayal, humiliation, unrequited love", I answered.
"I don't think I want to read that book", she said.
But she'll be missing out if she doesn't. I have read a lot of books in my 23 years, and I really do mean A LOT of books, possibly hundreds. This, this book of Wally Lamb's, is one of the best I have ever found, and if you're any kind of smart cookie you'll take my advice and find it for yourself, I know that much is true.
I'm aware that I do go on about books that I've read on my travels quite frequently. But to be honest, you've got off remarkably lightly, I'm usually much more prolific in my book chat than this. Just ask any of my close friends and I'm sure they'll happily attest to the fact that I become reasonably boring in my constant desire to discuss and dissect and debate novels I've read. I could talk about books I love forever, and probably will. Maybe I should see if anyone wants to pay me to write about them; Grace Gillman, Literary Critic, that would be jolly nice. Then I could spend a stupid amount of time reading and no one would be able to tell me I was wasting my time, because it would be my JOB to be boring about books! I should have thought of this sooner!
I become distracted. I'm writing today to tell you about the book I have just finished, Wally Lamb's, 'I Know This Much Is True'. I came across it in entirely serendipitous circumstances, having read myself out of mine and Ella's reading material (although I point blank refused to touch her copy of 'Rubbish Boyfriends' by Jessie Jones, it offends me that money is spent printing that garbage, I'm just surprised it didn't have illustrations) I was on the way to the book shop and exchange at the Beach House, dreading what manner of Jilly Cooper, Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes and Jodi Picoult dross I was going to find there.
Walking through the bar I caught sight of a lone abandoned book on a shelf by the snooker table. There was no library label or name in the front cover, and it had been sellotaped down the spine to hold the two separated halves together, I like a well-loved book. I was initially perturbed by the presence of an Oprah's Book Club sticker on the front, guessing that this might mean it was some kind of self-help preaching manifesto, but then I remember that Oprah likes Toni Morrison, so she can't be all bad. Turning it in my hands to read the blurb I was instead met by an onslaught of critics' opinions that said things like;
'Every now and then a book comes along that sets new standards for writers and readers alike. Wally Lamb's latest novel is stunning - and even that might be an understatement... this is a masterpiece.'
'A rich literary tapestry that is an affirmation of life.'
'Twice as thoughtful and twice as heart-wrenching as most published this year... impossible to forget.'
'A late twentieth century Les Miserables.'
'The only thing bad about Wally Lamb's new novel is that it's too good.'
'There are no superlatives impressive enough to describe this... the saga of the century.'
Well then. All this praise just left me mightily confused as to how the hell I'd never heard of this author or this book? Why don't I pay more attention to the New York Times Bestseller List? Why am I not a literary critic too? Why haven't I written my book yet instead of this silly blog? Why don't I watch Oprah? I become distracted again. You can probably guess what I'm going to say about Lamb's novel can't you, it's not going to be 'yeah, weren't bad' is it. Without wanting to hammer home the message too rigidly after all those critics' plaudits, I will tell you simply first, that yes, it is an astounding feat of literary genius, it is 900 pages of storytelling perfection that make you wish it had been double, triple it's already magnitudinous length. I've just finished it and I am fighting the urge to go back to page 1 and start all over again.
It is a fully developed exploration of contemporary suffering and redemption, it is inspiring, disturbingly comic, devastating, symmetrically crafted, a soulful consideration of all that hurts and heals us. Right at the centre of this book is an epic modern day survivor, a man who is flawed and selfish and angry and guilty of betrayal, and yet you love him all the more for his very human failings, you so desperately want him to have the happy ending he deserves. He should go down, in my opinion, as one of the greatest literary examples of troubled human life and heroism ever written.
I couldn't possibly tell you what it's about, because it is about everything. But if you intend to read it I would warn you to prepare yourself for a heavy study in tragedy. I was shedding a quiet tear to myself at one particularly emotive part and Ella asked me why it was sad? "Schizophrenia, cot death, self mutilation, child abuse, domestic violence, oppression of women, racism, divorce, depression, rape, social injustice, death, betrayal, humiliation, unrequited love", I answered.
"I don't think I want to read that book", she said.
But she'll be missing out if she doesn't. I have read a lot of books in my 23 years, and I really do mean A LOT of books, possibly hundreds. This, this book of Wally Lamb's, is one of the best I have ever found, and if you're any kind of smart cookie you'll take my advice and find it for yourself, I know that much is true.
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